HIGH UP IN THE TREES

We ate a hearty breakfast.

{That canine does not belong to us, much as it looks otherwise.}


{Some things are very easy to get used to.}

There are few constants to my week, but one is a breakfast shared with my parents at a nearby café. Now that they are recently returned from New Orleans with store of happy moments filling them to point of bursting, we resume our late morning feast at favoured haunt and together make fools of ourselves as we fumble with the crossword in the paper and set to the business of import: the family catch-up. In the crescent city for a little over three weeks, I am happy they are home. They feasted on fried shrimp po’boys, tapped foot to the Loose Marbles, marvelled at the buoyancy and vigour of the Lindy Hop dancers, rubbed shoulders at the Factory with Mr Tom Waits and made good their promise and always intention of keeping me in the loop, one beeped message at a time received on my phone.

+ Thank you for all your recent zine orders of late. It means the world.

+ How it looks through the eyes of another.
+ We bid a fond adieu to guest blogging on Clog. (Thanks for having us.)

From Sweden. From long ago.

 

{Never quite managing to see the whole picture. A new postcard collage created on a postcard sent from Camilla. (Thank you C.)}

When I think of my secondary school years, I think of awkwardness, suppressed laughter in the classroom, raucous laughter in the quadrangle, the long distance to cover from art class studios to history department, and a comfortable school blazer that among many secrets held in its pockets a small white plastic-toothed comb and locker key. When I think of my years spent studying classical ballet, I think of hairspray canisters, change rooms, warm-up exercises, the crunch of rosin, and my teacher demurely spitting in her palm in order to smooth with her hand the wisps of hair framing my face.

When I think especially of my primary school years I generally draw a blank. What I remember of these years is coloured and informed by photographs in albums and stories recounted. There are things I know about my primary school years but I cannot say I actually remember learning Greek words on the blackboard one at a time nor jumping the makeshift pommel horse in the hall during sport. Nonetheless, if I think long enough things come to mind: monkey bars to dangle from, and manes of hair to compare whilst upside down, muesli bars to munch or trade, and much talk of pets and toys and families and after school activities. A ubiquitous list of things recalled that could belong to any one.

 

When I think of the beach in those years I remember it brilliant, blue, and largely unpeopled. Before a storm, it would look like a sheet of grey glass broken only by one or two swimmers. There was an old pier to play in and pretend you were a sea fairy or sheltering maiden in modest togs. There were windsurfers and dog walkers and there was us, school kids at the beach at the end of our street. Living no longer within walking distance of the beach, I miss it.

Today however, catching a crowded tram home teeming with school kids, I cannot really say I miss those days. What is that saying about looking back too often? Something about falling backwards down the stairs if you turn your head too often. Best keep the head screwed forward, eyes fixed ahead. It is a long way down.

+ Lately I have received many wonderful things in the post and the consequent smile has been one reaching left to right ear and back again. From extra treats included with a 2010 calendar order from Camilla to ephemeral beauty from Frips and postcard joy and chocolate from Kristi, you can expect to see more here soon.

+ Hop, Skip and a Jump, Louise shares more photos of our work at the gallery. (Our exhibition draws to a close this Saturday.)

+ (Temporary) Abandonment, the sting of neglect.

The day passed without mishap.

{In a tangle. On Sunday my hair is a stranger to a comb.}

Let it be noted, the house did not leak. Through the night, it rained, and steadily so, but not a drop fell inside the house. The night was long and slow to pass, but come morning all was discovered dry that should be. The garden is soaked through, its beds of succulents, cacti, and lilies wet, and trees rendered new colour, darkened by the downpour. The fence palings, too, a dark woody hue in place of bleached pine standing tall around small garden perimeter. It was with anxiety coursing through the veins that I had listened to the rainfall on the roof, not pleasure. I was worried after the misfortunate flooding several weeks past that we would be allotted a second dousing. We were not. Relief, such relief, felt from sleepy-headed top to barefoot. No curtains to dry nor linen to wash, our house proved impenetrable fortress. I thank my lucky stars and set to a day wrapping zine orders for tomorrow’s post.

{Tomorrow will find me also at the gallery, turning once more the pages of some of my twenty-one collaged books.}

+ My new zine Postcards from… A key to help make your own world visible can be purchased here.

(My dear friends, I am dumbstruck by your many zine and card orders received thus far. As promised, the first ten orders received a little extra something made of paper and fabric, and so did the ten that swiftly followed. I am flattered by your enthusiasm. Thank you, all of you, for your interest in these things made.)

All became clear.

{I had always wished to do what was right though it never seemed as such.}


{On such a day as this the view proved of great comfort.}

In spirit of the preceding three postcard collage zines, today I have for you a fourth. A continuation of a theme so as not to disrupt the even tenor of life thus far in zine making, today I have for you Postcards from… A key to help make your own world visible.

 

It is 34 pages in length and Louise has fashioned with scalpel and brush laden with glue the natty black as raven spines. Predominately all in colour save one or two, this new zine features all thirty collages currently exhibited at Craft Victoria, plus an additional two moonlight collages which found more than worthy home prior to gallery install. An edition of sixty, the first ten orders (through our online store) will receive a little something extra atop the usual sprinkle of paper presents.

You can purchase a copy here.


{The passage home was long.}


{It was worth it if only to see the stars scuttle across the shore.}


{From the first through to the most recent, four zines in loose formation.}

+ In addition to the bright and new, we are having a sale on postcards and greeting cards (between 25% to 50% off).

(For those of you Melbourne based who prefer it so, Craft Victoria’s Counter will have copies of this new zine available for purchase soon.)

A different sort of a day.

{I see them! There, she pointed. Look.}

Threaded a path in direction of Geelong Gallery yesterday to see our five books exhibited as part of the 2009 Geelong acquisitive print awards. In a cabinet of their own they sat, two concertina bindings of ours unfurled at full length, three fanned in shape of a star. It was exciting to see them displayed, to see them encased, to catch the show before it closed, to be in such good company.

 

The drive there passed quickly, the four of us nattering away at fast tempo, chomping on snake confections flavoured delicious banana and wild berry as we headed away from the city. Black car packed to near capacity, all bags, props of the day, legs and a cardboard tray of recently drained coffee cups. It may only have been an hour by car but it had all the familiar markings of a daytrip. A suitable jolt of something different, day broken in new pieces and perspective changed. I need to do this more often.

{Circling the cabinet thrice over.)

+ As part of the 2009 Geelong acquisitive print awards, our five books, Objects gathered with care from recent reads (I) (II) (III) (IV) and (V), can be seen until the 29th of November.




{A Magic Bunny pin from Tex Gordon's show is purchased and a zine is made ready for tomorrow's launch.}

+ Postcards from... A key to make your own world visible is a new zine and it will be available tomorrow.

Following Saturday.

{Our things made by hand under Omar's watchful gaze.}

Day thus far has not gone to plan. Instead it has woven a free course to backdrop of a neighbouring party headed for the 12-hour mark. Late night through to late afternoon, a neighbouring house is being minded by a house sitter and his nearest and dearest and rowdiest, and I am showing my age. I am tired of their noise and I am wishing their stamina and drunken resolve to give out. I wish for them all to go home. I wish greatly to reclaim my untroubled Sunday ideal.

Further noise, though of a sort that involves no jeering, issues from inside our house too. In the roof above my head, two men who have made an art of shimmying up the ladder with ease are laying insulation. Through a small manhole in the hallway they squeeze, and every so often one descends asking for water, climbing down less gracefully, one black handprint on the wall at a time.

In such a setting an order is wrapped. Colourful Thelma’s stuffies, bird pinnies and pencil cases bound for a new store in Paddington.

{Thelma's stuffies and hammer & daisy things, all boxed up and ready for tomorrow's post.}

+ A Key to Help Make Your Own World Visible as reviewed by Emma Kirsopp, The Melbourne Art Review

+ A parcel of white penguins for a White Christmas takes shape

+ New hammer & daisy creations will soon be added to our store

To leaf through.

{We are hoping for great things from you, you know.}

At last the tomato plants are in. I am a week late, having been told that you need to have your tomatoes in during Cup week, and others I know have many flowers already on theirs. Height too. Mine remain, purchased yesterday, still squat but potential brimming, the fruit already ripening well in the sun. Two I have planted, one in a large pot, the other in a hanging basket. Two to tend to and hope for produce tasty.

Soil under the nails, sun on my back, it is hard to fathom that several weeks ago now I headed to the State library wrapped in my grey coat's cuddle.

{We have returned again to gallery two of Craft Victoria and turned a few more pages especially for you.}

There is something about libraries the world over that holds you in embrace most comforting. This is true even if you go there not to seek out a read but merely to fritter time or sit unnoticed. I visit them fairly frequently though like all pleasures it seems never to be frequently enough. Indulgences are like that, and all are worthwhile, always. When last I headed to the State Library, I took with me a book relatively recently collaged. I took with me, Eager for the old joys once more, and I turned the pages of it undetected, for the main, in the domed reading room.  As with previous effort, I am no filmmaker. Seemed merely the easiest way to share with you a book whose pages you cannot turn for yourself.

Friends, once again, I invite you to turn the pages with me.

{Over My Shoulder (II) from gracia & louise on Vimeo.}

Eager for the old joys once more is 23 pages in length and features collage and pencil across reproduits par la glyptographie. There is a hare in le panorama detaille, and someone you may well know seeks an audience in the Vatican. A golden feline bears witness to a crime, a rabbit escapes the carving knife. The laboratory is no place for you, and death comes to us all. The principaux tableaues of the Musée Grévin serve as education.

(Apologies to film and video makers the world over, and thank you Valery Gergiev and the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra (Tchaikovsky: Symphony #5 In E Minor, Op. 64-3. Valse: Allegro Moderato).)

+ Louise and I are still guest blogging on Clog for a few more weeks.

While the rice is cooking, add the saffron to the stock.

{Kept in memory.}

I have a recipe book in my hand that belonged to my grandmother Beatrice. Held together by aging yellowing tape, with wooden cover and painted image, it houses recipes for making your own ginger beer and lemon creams. Some are written in her neat hand, on lined paper cut to size and glued to existing page. Others are, like all of similar ilk, pulled from newspaper or magazine, reflecting the eating habits of the age. To make a Cornish pastie you’ll need six shakes of pepper. To make peanut cookies one cup of brown sugar is required. Some recipes are written on the back of small pieces of cardboard cut from the box of a Puffin one-step sponge mix, others appear by foreign hand, letters sent to her from friends. Bernice penned her recipe for Cheese Daisies and signed her name in the bottom right. One is from her mum, my great grandmother, ‘…a recipe for ginger biscuits, not nuts, which I used to make. They need no rolling…’ signed Mother and accompanied by three neat kisses symbolised by an X thrice repeated.

 

Gingerbread, pumpkin scones, frangipanni cake, there are all manner of dishes I have yet to cook.

+ Put two and two together and Yet another view, page details from This evening, however, I am thinking of things past.
+ Turning this way, turning that way, Leah's words draw a smile to my face.

Smolder.

{Today we turned the pages of several books...}


{...in order to reveal new characters keen to meet you.}

Seems the old adage of burning candle at both ends rings true, no matter what the circumstance, tiredness ensues.  Sailing merrily along on my double wax end burning ways in the lead up to our show at Craft Victoria, I suffered no ill effects. If anything, the momentum was thrilling and I seemed to be able to stay awake for hours on end wishing the impossible: that it was always this way. Impossible to maintain, yes, I knew that, but hell, so productive and fired by magical endurance. The eyes were rimmed a little blacker but I tossed all vanity aside in grip of mania. And then it all caught up with me: the inevitable thud, the unavoidable down to the up. There are tolls to be paid for soaring close to the sun, Icarus tells us what we now all know, but still chancing one’s luck is a pursuit few will ever tire of. Do not fly too close to sun or sea when your wings of feathers are adhered with wax.

 

In the week succeeding the opening of our show at Craft Victoria, I have nursed a cold; tended to my beloved Siamese cat, Omar, who suffered severe allergic reaction to a new flavour of food; and mopped from bedroom ceiling rain as it steadily flowed on Halloween eve. Were you my neighbour you would have heard tremendous amount of wailing and cussing (from self not Siamese). To find it raining indoors does not make for a restful eve. To have cat unwell on the couch as you rush madly past with buckets of water gathered from ceiling is in no way preferable to a friend’s Halloween party. Down the walls the rain did pour; down central light fixture, too. It collected on the floor, soaked the carpet through. And it collected on the bed; great big black puddles spreading like spilt ink on a white bedspread. It squelched underfoot as the lightening and thunder and rain provided no treat for the eve but cruel trick instead. Damn that one large accursed leaf blocking downpipe. Damn it for sealing an exit and causes bedroom walls to replicate the effect of the NGV’s waterwall.

 

Highs and lows and sleep deprivation, if I’ve not been around to pay visit to your blog or home of late, now you knoweth the reason. I am living in a drying out home with a cat on the mend. I am relishing the unpredictable.

+ Number One, here we go. For the duration of our show, Louise and I have been invited to guest post on Clog.